


The Slow Thaw

by citrinesunset



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Extra Treat, M/M, Reconciliation, Trick or Treat 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 17:10:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21305603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/pseuds/citrinesunset
Summary: Post-Dark Phoenix. Hank is trying to adjust to Charles' absence when he gets a postcard.
Relationships: Hank McCoy/Charles Xavier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2019





	The Slow Thaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [still_lycoris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_lycoris/gifts).

Hank was wearing a tuxedo over his furry blue form. The bowtie tickled. He was still unaccustomed to appearing in public like this, without his serum. X-Men missions were different; the public might have seen him, but he didn't have to look strangers in the eye and make conversation. Charles had started trying to coax him out of his shell by the mid-eighties, but Hank had spent the better part of his life hiding, and old habits died hard. In retrospect, as much as he wanted to believe in Charles' vision, his optimism always rang a little false. A voice in the back of Hank's mind always questioned if Charles really knew what it meant to be stared at and feared. Perhaps that was why Hank fought so hard to believe, and why his faith in Charles broke so sharply, when it finally did.

But now that he was headmaster, Hank had to set an example. He had to consider the message he sent, both to the students and their families and to the public. How would it look to young mutants if their own headmaster and advocate hid his mutation in public? Or perhaps Hank was trying to keep Charles in his life by finally adopting the man's lofty ideals for himself. Perhaps he felt guilty about Charles leaving in the first place.

When he left, Charles insisted it was because he felt it was time to retire. "What we do here has grown bigger than me," he'd said. "This is for the best. Perhaps if I passed the torch sooner...."

He'd acted like the break between them was healed. But Hank knew Charles was punishing himself. On nights like this, Hank felt like the one being punished. He could almost hear Charles in his head, saying, "Do you think you can do better than me? Here's your chance to prove it."

He wondered if Charles was watching, somehow, to see how things went without him.

So here he was, wearing a tuxedo at a charity benefit. But his feet were bare, and his claws tapped against the polished wood floor as he attempted to mingle. His champagne flute was almost comically small in his hand, and he held it delicately. The crowd at this party was polite enough not to stare at him, but they still stole curious looks as he walked past. Some of the richest people in New York were at this event, and schmoozing was part of the job, especially when they had a reputation to repair. Hank got that. He always knew that Charles did these sorts of things for the good of the school, even if the attention stoked his ego.

Hank's ego wasn't exactly nonexistent. He appreciated esteem and free champagne as much as anyone. But unlike Charles, he didn't know how to talk to people at events like these. He was used to his interests and accomplishments being met with blank stares from people who neither understood nor appreciated them.

He found an unoccupied spot at the far side of the room and surveyed the room with his back to the wood-paneled wall. Scott and Ororo were working the crowd, and from this vantage point, he could watch them both.

Hank wasn't prepared to take on the responsibility of being the primary face of the school. He wasn't used to the limelight. Whether that was a strength or a weakness of his had yet to be revealed. But right now, it seemed best to work together. The X-Men were still a team, and perhaps it was good to give Jean's friends things to do. Hank was mindful of the need to develop future leaders.

Two long hours later, Scott drove the three of them back to the mansion.

"I think that went well," Scott said. "They didn't seem to hate us."

"No," Hank murmured.

Their reputation with the public was weakened but not ruined. Accounts of the Phoenix's actions were too scattered and clouded in rumor to turn the tide against them permanently. Public opinion was fickle. The government was another story, but Hank didn't allow himself to dwell on that. What Charles built had always been precarious. Ironically enough, Hank found himself agreeing with Erik—the government could never be trusted.

When they got home, the mansion was quiet except for a group of older students watching TV in the living room. Hank went to Charles'—his—office and closed the door.

Aside from adding some of his own books to the shelves, he hadn't been able to bring himself to add any personal touches or remove Charles' things. At first, he hadn't wanted to be hasty. He still thought Charles might come back. Now, six months in, he'd settled into the role but still saw the office as Charles'. He still preferred to work out of his lab.

There was a small stack of mail on the desk. He'd been so busy preparing for tonight that he hadn't looked at it yet. He sat behind the desk and flipped through it. There were the expected bills, and an advertisement for a new Italian restaurant that had recently opened. Then he came across a postcard.

On the front was a bucolic picture of a mountain. On the back was a short note written in Charles' neat cursive.

_Dear Hank,_

_I've decided to do some traveling. I'm currently in the southeast of France, and it's beautiful this time of year._

_I hope the school is doing well. I hope you're doing well._

_Warm Regards,  
Charles_

It was the first Hank had heard from Charles since he left, and he was torn between relief and frustration. Was this all Charles had to say?

There was no return address. No way of contacting him at all. Though, if Charles were traveling, he might not have a permanent address to receive mail at.

Perhaps that was how Charles wanted it.

* * *

The postcards continued with no particular pattern. There were ones from Switzerland, Italy, Spain. Even Greece. The messages were always cordial and succinct, and Hank supposed he should feel fortunate to receive them.

For a few months, he didn't tell anyone. But after the fifth postcard arrived, he told Scott, Ororo, and Kurt that Charles had been in contact. They deserved to know.

He didn’t tell them when Charles finally gave him an address to write to.

Hank's first instinct was to write immediately. But after laying out a piece of stationery on the desk and finding his favorite pen, he was frozen. What should he say? How he sum up the past several months on a piece of paper?

He decided to take some time to mull over it. A day turned into three, and then a week. Then he took a group of students into the city to visit the Museum of Natural History, and needed the rest of the weekend for his nerves to recover. The next thing he knew, a few weeks had gone by.

Was Charles waiting for a response? Would he think Hank was avoiding him?

He couldn't put it off any longer. Hank sat down one evening after dinner and put pen to paper. There was a lot that he wanted to say but couldn't, so he wrote about what he was teaching the students, and the new technology he was working on in his lab. He wrote about how lovely the autumn leaves were. And then he sealed the letter and sent it off to France before he could second-guess himself.

When Charles responded, it was in the form of a letter this time. Hank opened it, saw the three pages of Charles' handwriting, and folded the papers back in the envelope to savor later. He was teaching class in a few minutes, and he wanted to give Charles' letter the time it deserved. He questioned this decision when he found it impossible to focus on his chemistry class. He ended up releasing the students fifteen minutes early.

Charles' letter was similar in tone to Hank's. He talked about his favorite shops and restaurants in France and the books he was reading. But near the end he wrote:

_I miss our conversations. There's no one I'd trust more than you to take care of the school, but I often wish you were here instead._

And at the bottom, he wrote:

_I'm thinking of coming back to the States before the end of the year. I have some affairs to take care of, and I'm beginning to feel homesick. Perhaps it's the change in weather. If I do visit, it would be nice to see you._

Until he read that, Hank hadn't realized how much he missed Charles. Quickly, he began to write a response.

_You must let me know when you plan to come in. I look forward to seeing you._

* * *

Hank brushed snow off his shoulders as he stepped into the hotel lobby. He wished he had his fur to keep him warm, but he'd decided to use his serum today. It seemed best to keep a low profile.

He hadn't told anyone where he was going, and he felt a little like he was betraying the others. But he wasn't sure if Charles was ready for that. He wasn't sure if _he_ was ready to share Charles.

He pulled a wrinkled piece of paper out of his pocket that had Charles' room number on it. A few minutes later, he was standing in front of the door.

He was still working up the courage to knock when it opened. Of course—Charles had sensed him.

Charles looked up at him with apprehension that Hank suspected mirrored his own expression.

"Hank," Charles said with a breathy chuckle. "It's so good to see you. Please, won't you come in?"

Hank looked around as Charles led him inside. "You didn't have to check into a hotel, you know. You could have stayed at the mansion."

"I thought this might be better for now. More quiet, perhaps. Please, have a seat."

Hank looked at the bed and at the plain wooden desk. He decided on the desk chair and pulled it out to take a seat. Looking around, he only saw a couple suitcases. He supposed most of Charles' things were either in storage or abroad. It appeared he wasn't planning to stay long, and Hank swallowed his disappointment.

Charles sat in front of him. In the dimly-lit room, it was hard to read his expression. For once, Hank wished he was the telepath. It might have made it easier to know what to say, what to do.

All he knew was that they'd done enough talking about weather and books.

"How long are you going to stay?" he asked.

"I'm not sure."

"Will you visit the school?"

There was a pause. "I'm not sure that would be wise. It might interfere with the progress you've made."

_Progress._ Was Charles truly so willing to let the school grow without him? For months, Hank had considered his new position tenuous at best, half imagining that Charles would return sooner or later to pick up where he left off. Now, he wasn't so sure.

"They would like it," he said. "_I_ would like it."

"Then perhaps I will."

"When you said you were coming back to the States, I thought maybe...you were thinking of returning for good."

Charles raised his eyebrows. "To the school, you mean? Hank, I meant what I said. The time is long past-due for me to step aside."

"But the school is your dream."

"And if it can't survive without me, I haven't done a very good job. No, I've left it in good hands. But visiting...I would like that."

He reached over and took one of Hank's hands. He ran his thumb across Hank's knuckles.

"I can't recall if I ever apologized to you," Charles said. "Properly, I mean."

Hank blinked and looked down at his lap. He wasn't crying, but felt like he might. "_I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have said some of the things I did."

Charles stroked his cheek with his free hand. Hank leaned into the touch on reflex, learning at that moment just how much he'd missed it.

"You weren't entirely wrong," Charles said softly. "Don't forget that just because you miss me now."

Hank's mouth twitched. "I've missed you since the day you left."

Hank scooted forward and leaned over to kiss him. Charles seemed surprised at first, and then wrapped his arms around him. Hank had feared for months that he would never experience this again. Never kiss Charles' lips or smell the woodsy scent of his aftershave. Sometimes, Hank had lain in Charles' bed just to smell him again, and he dreaded the day when every trace of him would be gone.

"How long can you stay?" Charles asked when they broke apart.

"As long as I want. You made me the headmaster, remember?" He would call Scott or Ororo, perhaps, to let them know not to worry. He wouldn't say where he was. Not yet.

"Then will you stay tonight?" Charles asked, a hint of his old playfulness in his voice.

A weight had been lifted from Hank's mind. Perhaps things would never be as they were, but the future held promise and things were being put right.

"Of course," he said. "I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
